chapter one
Argus Station
SysGov, 2981 CE
Klaus-Wilhelm von Schröder sat across from the reporter, back straight, eyes alert, his feldgrau Gordian Division uniform immaculate in the studio lighting. The reporter’s garb was equally sharp, his dark blue business suit accented with a scarf bedazzled with shifting stars and colorful nebulae.
The reporter smiled toothily at him, an expression that held all the warmth of a reactor’s cryogenic plant.
Klaus-Wilhelm kept his jawline still, suppressing any outward expression of his discomfort through sheer force of will. He was not looking forward to this.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen and abstracts. This is LNN’s Live Wire, and I’m your host, Sergei Radulov. Today, we have a rare interview with one of the biggest names in SysGov. He’s a man plucked from an alternate version of 1958, a commander who’s earned the moniker ‘living legend’ from friend and foe alike. He served as a graf of imperial Germany, a four-star general over an entire Panzer army, the leader of the campaign to liberate Ukraine from the clutches of Joseph Stalin, the provisional governor of said nation, and then finally as the commissioner of our very own Gordian Division. I am, of course, talking about Klaus-Wilhelm von Schröder.”
Radulov shifted in his seat, facing Klaus-Wilhelm with another one of those fake smiles.
“Commissioner, a pleasure to have you on the program.”
“Sergei.” He gave the reporter a neutral nod.
“It’s hard to believe you’ve only been with us for fourteen months. How has life in the thirtieth century been treating you?”
“It’s kept me busy more than anything else. Every day brings a new set of challenges.”
“I’ll bet. Do you ever find living in the True Present overwhelming?”
“No, not especially.”
“Come now, Commissioner. Surely there’s something that’s given you trouble. You skipped a thousand years of history. Modern SysGov must have come as quite the shock to you.”
“The technology certainly had its share of surprises for me, time travel included. But ultimately, tech is simply a set of tools. The ones we have now are far more powerful than those available in my native time, but they’re still tools that can be wielded for good or ill. It’s the people wielding them that matter most.”
“And what of those people? Surely, our society startled you at least a little.”
“Not really. Again, I’d say I was surprised more than anything. Yes, the ability to virtualize consciousness is truly remarkable. But people are still people, whether they’re organic, synthetic, or abstract. The vessel holding the mind doesn’t matter to me; only the quality of the individual.”
“A commendable perspective. One I’m sure we all wished more people held.”
Radulov paused to smile again.
Here it comes, Klaus-Wilhelm thought.
“Commissioner, as you know, we’re fast approaching the one-year anniversary of the Dynasty Crisis, which saw the Gordian Division take center stage for the first time. Now, no one would dispute that your division was instrumental in pulling our collective feet out of the fire, but the fact remains that over seventy-one thousand people suffered permanent death from the Dynasty’s attack on the L5 Hub. There are some who say the Gordian Division hasn’t done enough to remedy that loss of life.”
“Who?”
Radulov paused ever so slightly, perhaps taken aback by the sudden question.
“I’m sorry, Commissioner?”
“Who says we haven’t done enough?”
“Why, concerned citizens, of course.”
“How many of them? Are we talking about three people griping on a forum or a political movement three million strong? And, more importantly, what are their backgrounds when it comes to understanding and appreciating how dangerous time travel is?”
“Commissioner, I believe you’re getting distracted from the issue. People are merely asking why Gordian Division, as the temporal arm of SysPol, hasn’t undone the greatest tragedy of this century.”
“Because we can’t.”
“Can’t, Commissioner?” Radulov leaned forward. “Or won’t?”
“Can’t. It is impossible for us to change our own past. Even if we set out to achieve that goal—which would be a fool’s errand for countless reasons—all we would accomplish is the creation of a new universe. Our past and those deaths would still all be there.”
“But those victims would be alive, would they not? The only distinction being they would exist within a branch in the timeline.”
“At what cost? Meddling with the past is what brought about the Gordian Knot and nearly destroyed fifteen universes, including this one. That’s why both we and the Admin signed the Gordian Protocol, along with all its limitations on time travel. We must never again place all of creation at risk. Not for a thousand lives. Or ten thousand or a million or even a billion, because the cost of failure is oblivion for everyone.”
“I understand that, Commissioner. But there are some who’ve suggested an alternative exists for bringing back those people. One that doesn’t spawn a new universe or violate the Gordian Protocol. In fact, it’s a method that’s been used many times in the past.”
“You’re referring to how the Antiquities Rescue Trust used to travel back in time and pluck famous people and artifacts out of history?”
“I am, Commissioner.”
“Temporal replication, as a practice, contributed to the formation of the Gordian Knot, which again leads us to the same problem.”
“But couldn’t temporal replication be used to bring them back? To undo the tragedy? Isn’t it true that changes to the past don’t necessarily result in the creation of a new universe?”
“That much is correct. The change must be substantial enough to overcome time’s natural inertia for a new universe to form. Otherwise, the past rebounds back into its original shape.”
“Then why not use that method to save those lives?”
“Because now we’re talking about violating the Valkyrie Protocol. Need I remind you that the Dynasty’s entire timeline imploded in on itself because of their rampant replication industry. Are these ‘concerned citizens’ suggesting we instigate a similar collapse in our own timeline?”
“Of course not, Commissioner. It’s merely being suggested—”
“And I’m shooting their suggestions down. Both the Gordian and Valkyrie protocols are there for very good reasons, first and foremost of which is the threat reckless time travel has proven to be.”
“Commissioner, please—”
“If your viewers are still wondering why we in the Gordian Division refuse to bend the timeline into pretzels just to suit our immediate needs, then I suggest they open a screen, run a search on either protocol, and start reading.”
* * *
“His interview is over. Positions, everyone!”
Agent Raibert Kaminski of SysPol’s Gordian Division had timed the ambush perfectly. He had to, for his target was none other than Klaus-Wilhelm von Schröder. Such a foe was not to be underestimated! Especially when he weighed the man’s numerous accomplishments against Raibert’s humble background studying ancient history.
But that difference would make his victory all the sweeter.
Raibert pressed his back against the wall by the executive entrance to Gordian Operations. Abstract data displays covered the walls of the wide, circular room and more hovered within its center while two dozen Gordian agents—both physical and abstract—milled about in a deliberate pantomime of business-as-usual.
Footsteps echoed through the entrance’s programmable-steel shutter, signaling the approach of his quarry.
“Here he comes,” Raibert whispered, raising his chosen weapon to his lips. He waited beside the door with all the patience of an assassin.
The door split open, and Klaus-Wilhelm strode out, back straight, shoulders square, head high, and eyes forward. He wore the grayish green of the Gordian Division with the golden eye and drawn-sword division patch on his shoulder alongside his commissioner insignia.
And then he stopped at the threshold.
Had some small detail caught the Commissioner’s eye? The man’s instincts were unbelievably sharp, despite having been transplanted from the twentieth century to the thirtieth. Or perhaps because of this translated nature his astute eyes could pick out details a native to the True Present might miss.
Raibert began to worry, but then Klaus-Wilhelm gave Operations a small, disproving shake of his head—
—and stepped through the doorway.
“Surprise!” the room chorused.
Confetti poppers rigged on either side of the door burst open, showering Klaus-Wilhelm with sparkling, multicolored squares, and Raibert blew hard into his party favor, which unfurled into a red-with-white-dotted paper tongue and honked obnoxiously in the Commissioner’s ear.
Klaus-Wilhelm paused and regarded the room with narrow eyes, his lips pressed together, forming a line that threatened to dip into a frown. He casually reached up to one shoulder and brushed the glitter away.
“Raibert?”
“Yes, boss?” he replied, party favor suspended in his lips.
“Refresh my memory. Haven’t we discussed your overly casual approach to our organization?”
“We have.” Raibert withdrew the party favor. “Once or twice, I think.”
“And?”
“I get results, don’t I?”
“I never said you didn’t. Still”—Klaus-Wilhelm brushed confetti off the other shoulder—“perhaps another discussion is in order.”
“You say that now, but did you realize today is a special day?”
Klaus-Wilhelm plucked a silvery square off his breast and gazed into it as if it contained the secrets of the universe—or several universes, as was the case with Gordian Division business—but then he frowned at what was only his distorted reflection and flicked it away.
“The significance seems to have slipped my mind.”
“That’s only because you haven’t heard the news.” Raibert swept an arm across Gordian Operations. “We hit a major milestone!”
An abstract banner unfurled, sagging across the center of the room in everyone’s shared virtual vision. The colorful, paper cutout letters spelled 100 UNIVERSES!! Raibert had insisted on adding the second exclamation point.
“That many already?” Klaus-Wilhelm’s stern face softened ever so slightly.
“Quite a leap since we mapped the Local 15, wouldn’t you say?” Raibert asked, referring to the fifteen universes that survived the Gordian Knot and formed a cluster around SysGov. “The surveys are in all the way up to universe one hundred two, and you know what a milestone means?”
“My body trembles with anticipation.”
“They’re excuses to celebrate!” Raibert threw his arms up in triumph. “Come on, boss! We’ve got cake.”
He guided the Commissioner toward the table tucked off to the side, laden with plates, utensils, glasses, a punch bowl, coffee, tea, and yes, a huge rectangular cake.
“Butterkuchen,” Klaus-Wilhelm observed, his expression warming even more at the sight of the yellowish German butter cake topped with sugar and streusel.
“See? We even printed out your favorite.”
“Well, if you insist.” The hint of an approving smile curled Klaus-Wilhelm’s lips. “I suppose a little festivity now and then won’t hurt anyone.”
The room exhaled a quiet sigh of relief, and a queue for cake began to form now that they had the boss’s approval. Raibert served the Commissioner the first slice and then joined him off to the side with his own plate.
“Was this your idea?” Klaus-Wilhelm asked, forking in the first bite.
“Not entirely,” Raibert replied. “More of a group effort.”
“Grossvater,” Agent Benjamin Schröder said with a respectful nod, joining them along with his wife, Agent Elzbietá Schröder.
Both Schröder men were tall and broad-shouldered with the same penetrating gray eyes, though the particulars of their first time-hopping adventure—and when each man had been pulled from history—along with access to thirtieth-century medicine, had rendered them visually more like brothers than grandfather and grandson. Or perhaps cousins, given Klaus-Wilhelm’s buzz of blond hair and Benjamin’s much darker coloration inherited from his mother.
Raibert stood taller and broader than both with his long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, but that was thanks to the synthoid he and his integrated companion had liberated from the System Cooperative Administration. It had been over a year since he unwillingly transitioned from his original flesh and blood, and he’d grown to consider this larger, more muscular form to be the “true Raibert.” It certainly didn’t hurt to have a durable synthetic body in his line of work!
Elzbietá chewed and swallowed a forkful from her own cake, then cleared her throat.
“We all chipped in,” she said before snagging her second bite off Benjamin’s plate, prompting him to give her some fierce side-eye.
“Excuse me?” Benjamin asked. “Don’t you have your own?”
“But yours looked more delicious.”
“What are you talking about? It all came from the same cake.”
“I know.” Elzbietá stabbed a second moist forkful off his plate.
“Fine.” Benjamin held it out for her. “Help yourself.”
Elzbietá resumed eating her own cake.
“What’s wrong now?” Benjamin asked.
“It’s no fun if you don’t make me work for it.”
Benjamin let out a patient sigh and resumed eating his cake.
“I don’t see Philosophus.” Klaus-Wilhelm glanced around the room. “Is he not coming?”
“In a bit,” Raibert said. “He and a few other agents are covering for us while we celebrate. Wouldn’t you know it, but Themis Division called right before you came in. Something about an exploding spaceship. He should be around once it’s taken care of.”
“I’m beginning to think ‘conspiracy’ might be the best word for what you lot put together,” Klaus-Wilhelm said with a glint of playfulness in his eyes.
“Something like that,” Elzbietá said. “Though, if you recall, we never properly celebrated your promotion to commissioner, either.”
“We were too busy picking up the pieces after we saved reality from itself.” Benjamin paused and frowned. “Again.”
“Yeah. There wath thah,” Elzbietá muttered around a mouthful of cake.
“Speaking of which”—Raibert set his cake down—“got a question for you, boss.”
“Fire away.”
“It’s about the different versions of Earth we’re cataloguing out there in the transverse. Shouldn’t we be doing something about them?”
“Like what?”
“Well, I don’t know. Some of the Earths—the barren ones with no people—aren’t really an issue. Don’t see any reason why we couldn’t colonize those someday. But there are plenty of others out there with thriving human societies from all across the development spectrum.”
“Or their remnants,” Benjamin pointed out.
“Yes.” Raibert nodded sadly. “Those, too. And that’s part of my point. Would those societies have died out if someone had come along to lend a helping hand? You know, maybe shown them the ropes as they worked their way out of the technological cradle.”
“Someone like us?” Klaus-Wilhelm asked guardedly.
“Maybe. The more we search, the more evidence we find that SysGov and the Admin are outliers. We’re unusual because we survived our first, stumbling steps into the realm of post-scarcity and transtemporal tech. From the looks of it, most societies don’t make it past that point.”
“Probably because sufficiently advanced societies tend to destroy their own universes,” Benjamin said grimly. “Either through ignorance or excessive use of temporal weapons. We’ve certainly found our fair share of permanent chronometric storms out there, and not all of them are natural.”
“Or they end up like one of the Q’s,” Elzbietá added, referring to universes quarantined by their survey ships due to extreme hazards, such as the nanoblight machines of Q3 or the weaponized biohorrors of Q5.
“Exactly,” Raibert said. “Which then brings us back to my question. What should we do about all the Earths out there?”
“We could just leave them alone,” Benjamin suggested. “I’m not saying that’s what we should do, but it’s an option.”
“Even if we stand aside, who’s to say the Admin will?” Elzbietá countered.
“Point taken,” Benjamin said. “And we all know what our team leader thinks of them.”
“Hey now!” Raibert crossed his arms. “I’ve been using the Admin’s ‘traditional’ honorific less and less these days,” he added, referring to his habit of calling SysGov’s multiverse neighbor “the fucking Admin.”
“I almost miss hearing you say that,” Benjamin said, raising a bite of butter cake.
“Really?” Elzbietá gave her husband a sour look.
“Almost.”
“We could reach out to the Earths we’re finding,” Raibert continued. “Maybe establish contact with the more advanced societies. The ones getting close to developing dangerous tech, at least. Perhaps even establish ports where our societies can mingle and trade.”
“Which comes with its own share of pitfalls,” Benjamin said.
“Such as?”
“Raibert, you and I were both historians. When’s the last time large-scale contact between two societies—one significantly less advanced than the other—ended well for the little guys?”
“Um . . . ”
“Yeah. My point exactly.”
“I might point out that most of those significantly advanced cultures weren’t exactly making contact for altruistic reasons,” Raibert said. “They weren’t all out to bulldoze the locals intentionally, whatever some of their critics may say, but they weren’t there out of the goodness of their hearts, either. The majority of the damage they did was incidental to their other reasons for being there.”
“Like moving the local citizenry off of their land so the newcomers could look for gold, for example?” Benjamin’s eyes glinted.
“I did say the majority of the damage,” Raibert retorted. “But that actually makes my point stronger, I think. If we came calling expressly to help, not to gain anything from them—except probably mutually beneficial intercourse down the road—that sort of thing would be a lot less likely to happen.”
“‘Mutually beneficial intercourse,’” Benjamin repeated in a musing sort of tone. “Hmmm . . . One way to describe ‘screwed over with the noblest of intentions.’” Raibert glared at him, and he shrugged. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Raibert. I’m just saying that humans are humans, and I guarantee you they could screw up almost any operation like that, whether it’s intentional or accidental. Let’s not forget Doctor Beckett and that bastard Gwon.” His tone turned grim. “Sort of an example of both ways to screw up.”
Raibert’s expression tightened. Teodorà Beckett’s tragic, desperately well-intentioned effort to create a universe in which the Black Death never happened cut especially deep for him, and not just because he and Teodorà had once been lovers. Every time he even thought about the way Lucius Gwon’s narcissistic megalomania had destroyed an entire universe . . .
“Point,” he said after a moment. “A damned good one, actually. But if not for Gwon, Teodorà and Pepys probably would have pulled it off, even with the temporal replication problem.”
“Probably,” Benjamin conceded, “although that little ‘problem’ is actually a pretty good example of unintended consequences. And, while I’m thinking about it, one of those consequences would have been the destruction of both SysGov and the Admin. Which sort of underscores my point, I think.”
“But —”
“I guess it really doesn’t matter what we three think,” Elzbietá interrupted, and turned to Klaus-Wilhelm.
The other two agents followed her lead, and the three of them waited in expectant silence, occasionally forking cake into their mouths and chewing. Klaus-Wilhelm seemed to use those moments of silence to gather his thoughts, and when they were sufficiently composed, he stood a little straighter.
“As a woman once said in a movie I’m quite fond of, ‘I’ll think about it . . . tomorrow.’”
“Really?” Raibert made a face. “That’s your answer?”
“Mmm!” Elzbietá paused to swallow. “Scarlett O’Hara from Gone with the Wind! Am I right?”
Klaus-Wilhelm gave her a curt nod.
“Yes!” She clenched a triumphant fist. “Called it!”
“Wait a second,” Benjamin said. “How come you two have seen that movie? Wasn’t it exclusive to SysGov’s timeline?”
“Almost, but not quite,” Elzbietá said. “Came out in 1939, the year before Hitler was assassinated and the Admin’s timeline branched off from SysGov’s.”
“Ah.”
“Can we get back to my question, please?” Raibert asked. “And the nonanswer we all just received.”
“I’m not sure what else you expected,” Klaus-Wilhelm said. “Even though I’m the head of Gordian, a decision like that is—thankfully—above my pay grade.”
“Then will you pass it up the chain?” Raibert asked.
“Not for a while.”
Raibert blinked. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected, and Klaus-Wilhelm could see it.
“Raibert, can you imagine what will happen when I lay this problem at the feet of career politicians? And remember, we as an organization have no clear answer for what we should do. Would you like to take a guess at what their next question would be?”
“Not a . . . good one?”
“They’ll say ‘why are you surveying all these universes if you don’t have a plan for what comes next?’ Followed by, ‘Perhaps you should place a temporary pause on these survey efforts until you do have those next steps figured out.’ And then, just like that, our efforts to chart the transverse grind to a halt. Is that what you’d like to see happen, Raibert?”
“What? No! Of course not!”
“Perhaps we should keep this problem to ourselves,” Elzbietá said. “At least for a little while.”
“But . . . ” Raibert began to protest.
“Relax, Raibert,” Benjamin said. “Have some cake. You’ve barely touched yours.”
Raibert grimaced down at his cake on the table.
“Our politicians aren’t the only problem we need to keep in mind,” Klaus-Wilhelm said. “We have enough issues to contend with without adding something of this magnitude to the fire.”
“The Admin?” Benjamin guessed, and Klaus-Wilhelm nodded.
“What else? I’m heading to Providence Station later today for another round of meetings I hope won’t turn into a shouting match.”
“How bad is it?” Elzbietá asked.
“In a word, challenging.” Klaus-Wilhelm harrumphed out a breath. “While you were out surveying the transverse, the Admin was hit with a string of surprisingly sophisticated terrorist attacks, and they’re pointing the finger at SysGov.”
“Why?” Benjamin asked. “How are we at fault?”
“Because it looks like some of our citizens are involved,” Klaus-Wilhelm said. “We pushed back against the Admin’s accusations at first, partially out of reflex, but also because we haven’t detected any unauthorized phase-outs in our territory. But the evidence piled up quickly, to the point where it’s basically irrefutable now. Someone from SysGov is giving the Admin’s troublemakers access to some very dangerous toys. Even Peng has had to admit they have a point, and you know butting heads with the Admin is his new, favorite hobby.”
“You can say that again,” Raibert agreed. “It’s Consul Peng now, isn’t it?”
“That it is.”
“Of CHRONO,” Benjamin added with a brief shake of his head. “‘Committee for Humane Research Outside Normal Order.’ Now there’s a tortured acronym if I ever saw one.”
“It’s the H,” Elzbietá said. “That letter’s a troublemaker through and through. Try coming up with something that ties into time travel.”
“Um . . . hourly?” Benjamin shrugged. “Yeah, I got nothing.”
“Is this extra oversight really warranted?” Raibert asked. “From CHRONO, I mean.”
“President Byakko believes so,” Klaus-Wilhelm said. “And, as Benjamin just pointed out, it’s only been eleven months since our reality almost went kaput . . . for the second time in two years. Between exploding universes, imploding universes, and branching timelines out to murder ours, a lot of very powerful people—in both SysGov and the Admin—are more than a little nervous about what we and our counterparts in the DTI are doing.”
“But why Peng?” Raibert asked. “Isn’t CHRONO supposed to be a joint SysGov-Admin organization? Why appoint the guy with a major bone to pick with the Admin?”
“The President wanted a civilian with a skeptical disposition to fill the role, and Peng’s name rose to the top of her list. As for the wisdom of her choice . . . we’ll see.”
“All hail our new nanny overlords at CHRONO,” Raibert grumped.
“It’s not that bad,” Elzbietá said, but then frowned at Klaus-Wilhelm. “Is it?”
“No. It’s worse.”
She winced at his response.
Everyone resumed eating their cake in silence without a smile among them. Even Raibert picked up his plate and cut off a piece with the side of his fork.
“You know what this means?” Benjamin said after a while.
“What?” Raibert asked.
“We just need more cake to brighten the mood.”
“Now there’s the best idea I’ve heard all day!” Elzbietá beamed.
She’d just slipped her arm through Benjamin’s when a redheaded, red-bearded Viking popped into existence beside them, though “Viking” was a bit of a stretch nowadays. His helmet sported a pair of prominent horns that had never graced the headgear of real Vikings, but his original headgear had been replaced with a twenty-first-century aviator’s helmet. Elzbietá had designed and given him the virtual headwear, and he’d worn it ever since.
“Oh, hey there, Philo!” Raibert smiled at his integrated companion. “Glad you could join—”
“We’ve got a problem,” Philo interrupted, facing the Commissioner. “Sir, I just transmitted back from a Themis Division support call.”
“Go on.”
“Sir, it looks like they found evidence of unauthorized time travel. Of the really bad, existential-threat kind.”